The Journey So Far

A chronological stroll thru the history of Broadway Musicals as they came to be recorded by Hollywood--the summation of a lifelong vocation, and a journey of self discovery. Equal parts cultural history, critique and personal memoir. Comingnext: Jersey Boys

Saturday, December 17, 2016

Chicago

December
10, 2002, Miramax 113 minutes

During the five years I lived in NY, there was no Opening
Night I was more keen to attend than the one to Chicago. First announced in the summer of '74, the show was delayed
by Fosse's untimely heart attack, and not back on track until June of '75. But
unlike other must-sees I nabbed tix to, there were no Opening Night duckets
available at the box office, which only fueled my determination. I wrote to
Gwen Verdon (in c/o the theater) to plead my case as her most passionate fan.
She was in fact my favorite Bway star--a position unchanged after I received a
sweet hand-written note back, excusing herself from any pull at the box
office--but wishing me luck. On the Night-Of I arrived hours early to pounce on
any possible cancellation. As was kismet, my diligence panned out and I scored
an orchestra seat on the far right side, but only ten rows from the stage. From
the very stage that 20 years earlier Verdon set afire as Lola in Damn Yankees, followed by her Anna
Christie in New Girl in Town and
Essie Whimple in Redhead--all of them
earning her Tonys; all of them staged by Bob Fosse. Indeed the 46th St. Theater
could as easily have been renamed the Verdon, or the Fosse instead of the
Richard Rodgers (who aside from Do I Hear
a Waltz had only one show ever play this house: a short-lived revival of On Your Toes in 1954). There is
something special about Bway theaters, tho they grow everymore cramped and
uncomfortable over the years. But they are truly temples of mirth and divinity;
and within their hallowed walls lingers some kind of cosmic residue from the
great shows and performers who imbued the space with their unique talents. By
that token I feel a thrill whenever I enter the St. James, the Majestic, the
Shubert or the Winter Garden. But my heart shall always belong first to the
46th St. where happy ghosts from Finian's
Rainbow, Guys & Dolls, I Do! I Do! How to Succeed in Business, waft in
the rafters. Aside

from Chicago,
here's where I saw 1776 on a 4th of
July, No No Nanette four times; Nine, twice, opening night of Raisin, the great late Tammy Grimes in Private Lives; Seussical; In the Heights and
the first month of the revived-by-Encores! Chicago,
before it moved to smaller houses. And now it houses, no--enshrines, Hamilton.

So there I was in my orchestra seat as the curtain rose,
the horn wailed and Chita Rivera rose up thru the floor to start "All That
Jazz"--surrounded by Fosse's most stylized, least dressed corps of dancers.
The audience went wild--I was living the dream. If Gwen Verdon was my favorite Bway star,
Chita Rivera was a close second, and having a double-header for my first live
exposure to both was beyond reasonable expectation. (I fell for them thru
records, mind you--ladies known for their dancing!) On top of that there was Jerry
Orbach, who'd forever earned my affection from Promises, Promises, oozing charm in a sleazy role. The show was so
top-loaded I had little need to care for either Barney Martin or Mary
McCarty--in another late career peak, following her Stella Deems in Follies, leading the ensemble in
"Who's That Woman?" And should there be a moment of boredom there was
always one or another of the lithe and eroticized dancers, male or female, to
catch the eye. And perhaps most importantly it was Kander & Ebb at the top
of their form, with melodies so engaging I couldn't wait to get the OCR on my
turntable.

This was also the summer A Chorus Line roared onto Bway from downtown, stealing most of the
thunder (and a year later, the Tonys). And as much enthralled as I was with
that show, too, I argued with my friends with unfounded certainty that
ultimately Chicago would prove to
have the more lasting score. The show was a soft hit (Gwen never had a musical
flop) but it was far overshadowed by Michael Bennett's phenomenon, tho there
was a publicity boost when Verdon had to exit for an injury, and was replaced
for five weeks (just as Chorus Line
was opening at the Shubert) by Liza Minnelli--starting a stampede for tickets.
Verdon returned and stayed with the show until Ann Reinking took over for the
final six months. A road company toured with obscure leads until Gwen &
Chita stepped into it 7 months later during the obligatory Civic Light Opera
weeks in LA & SF--where I saw the golden duo for a 4th and final time. Oh,
yes, I had also seen it with Liza, who'd subbed on such short notice she was
still a bit wobbly with the lines, but oh was she game--and yes she was an able
Fosse dancer at the time. Despite all that, the show settled into semi-obscurity
until 20 years later when Encores! staged a stripped-down version that so
electrified its audience it was quickly transferred to Bway--where it's now run
over 20 years--the longest running American musical in Bway history.

It was Gwen Verdon who first saw a musical in the 1942
Ginger Rogers movie, Roxie Hart;
which in turn was a cleaned up, softened version of a play by Maurine
Watkins--spun from her own reporting on two "Jazz-killer" trials in
the Second City--a Bway hit in 1927 as Chicago.
Watkins herself is quite worthy of fable; an Indiana girl gone Radcliffe, who
impulsively decided to become a reporter and wound up interviewing a bounty of
convicted murderers, including Leopold & Loeb. Just as abruptly she quit
the trade, fearing she was enjoying it too much. While at Yale Drama School,
she wrote Chicago and sold it to Sam Harristo produce--all by the age of 26. Verdon wanted Fosse to make the show for her
since the late '50s. But when it finally came together Gwen was hitting 50, and
as she'd struggled thru the run of Sweet
Charity with many weeks out due to illness or injury, she requested Velma
(originally a supporting role) be expanded to an equal share of the bill, thus
inviting Chita Rivera to divide the burden--the other Golden Age Star Dancer. At
42, Chita was no spring-chicken either, but she would astound us all by continuing
to star in Bway musicals well into her 70s--and even continue dancing after a
taxi accident left her nearly crippled in 1986. Astonishingly, this was only
her second Tony nomination (after Bye Bye
Birdie), tho she'd eventually earn a record 10 noms (shared by Julie
Harris) --her two wins still years ahead. Verdon was Tony nominated for every
one of her six musicals, and won the first four. It would be hard to choose
between ladies in Chicago, which in
part was why it was easy to crown Donna McKechnie the winner for A Chorus Line the next June--tho hers
was far less a starring role. But then Chicago
lost all 11 of its Tony nominations to Chorus
Line. The '96 revival won six, including those for Bebe Neuwirth (as
Velma), Joel Grey (as Amos) and Ann Reinking (not for Roxie, but for retracing
Fosse's steps, thru her own lens.)

Billed "a musical vaudeville," the show is as
much a pastiche as Follies, but one
in which the songs move the plot--some are
the plot. Yet they play like specialties, as indeed they are, modeled on such
1920s headliners as Helen Morgan, Ted Lewis, Sophie Tucker, Eddie Cantor, Bert
Williams; who over time are less & less familiar or even relevant to
audiences. Nowadays do even 5% know the correlations to performers past, much
less care? This was one obstacle to realizing a screen version, another was the
belabored complaint that millennial audiences had problems with characters
bursting into song. Bill Condon's screenplay circumvented these issues by
having the numbers arise thru Roxie's delusional show-biz fantasies. This establishes
a pattern but doesn't always conform. Would she really imagine a full-out Fosse
ensemble like "Cell Block Tango"?--one without a historical reference
point (unless it's Sweet Charity's
"Big Spender"). No matter, the device works. But it isn't the stagey presentation
of the songs that's changed, but the underlining narrative--done as vaudeville
sketches onstage--depicts a contrasting grim reality on film. Musical numbers
weave in & out thru the arrest, incarceration and trial of Roxie, but in
depicting the harsh actuality beyond them--something entirely missing in the
original musical--helps make the conceit work even better. Of course it doesn't
hurt that the songs are good. Among the Best-of-Kander & Ebb-good. So from
the start Hlwd was eyeing the property. Fosse was the natural first choice to
direct but he preferred to move on to All
That Jazz (a not so subtle snub to Chicago
in its very title), which left the project somewhat unmoored. Still, rumored
casting floated around for years: Liza Minnelli & Goldie Hawn; Cher &
Bette Midler; Ellen Greene & Michelle Pfeiffer. But musicals were evermore
scarce in Hlwd, and as the '90s rolled on Chicago
was fading into the past. That is until City Center's Encores! brought it
roaring back to life in '96--setting off an avalanche of international productions,
national tours and a sit-down Vegas version. The original Fosse production was
deemed too cynical by many--too cold to be enjoyable; a factor cited in its
limited exposure. Aside from two years on Bway there was a national tour and a
West End edition, but only one major international production in, of all
places, Buenos Aires--and before even London. (Presumbaly Argentinos were more inclined
to be cynical of society). Many cited the OJ Simpson trial as a turning point
in American mores, which in turn gave new relevance to Chicago--as well as accrued theatrical value. And so a quarter century
later at the instigation of Zadan & Meron, the Weinstein Bros. and Bway
producer Marty Richards, the movie was finally a go. The screenplay was awarded
to Bill Condon as a follow up to his Oscar-winning tinsel-town gargoyle, Gods & Monsters; and for director:
Rob Marshall, whose film credits include Zadan & Meron's TV updates of Annie and the multi-racial Cinderella. Wise choices that trusted
& preserved the show's inherent value, without trying to reinvent the film
musical; in other words: without apology.

Casting at the turn-of-the-millennium was a whole new
ballgame, and few of the choices were obvious. But was there anyone left that was obvious? Madonna, perhaps, for
Velma--you'd think she'd have lobbied for it. Rene Zellweger was a fresh young
thing come up thru Jerry Maguire, Nurse
Betty and Bridget Jones' Diary--at
the peak of her Hlwd ripeness, and Roxie Hart was a surprisingly good match for
her ferocious innocence & sexy twinkle. With her weepy resting-face and
period bob, Renee finds all the right buttons for Roxie, from killer to
victim--with just the right amount of musical ability to put her songs over
without showing any major talent. It's a tightrope she walks quite well.
Catherine Zeta-Jones may check all the boxes for Velma, but I can't ever seem
to get it up for her. Like many West End musical stars (Elaine Paige, Ruthie
Henshall) Zeta-Jones lacks a certain fizz that makes a star a Star--something more
cultivated if not demanded on the Great White Way. Well, at least that's been
my opinion. She doesn't do anything wrong here, really (discounting her awful
line readings of the Cicero story in "Cell Block Tango") but she just
doesn't electrify in a role that Chita--and even Bebe Neuwirth did. So
naturally she's the single cast member to win an Oscar. I've no objection to
Richard Gere as Billy Flynn, tho he's at best an adequate song & dance man. Queen Latifah is much better, tho we must look blind to color, for surely no
black woman ran a Cook County prison in the '20s. But she's fine in voice &
figure channeling Pearl Bailey playing the Palace. (But I just flashed on what
Cass Eliot might have once done with the part!) And in John C. Reilly a perfect
Amos is captured, a dullard and doofus, but interesting enuf an actor to make
us almost care. Christine Baranski who seems to pop up everywhere, takes on
Mary Sunshine--a gossip columnist played on stage by a man in drag. Dominic
West, not yet well known plays Roxie's victim, Fred Casely; Colm Feore, a prosecutor, and Lucy

Liu, an unlikely society murderess who steals everyone's thunder at the climax of Roxie's trial. Taye Diggs tickles the ivories as a
sort of silent emcee, doing little more than looking dapper in nightclub blue
light. And Chita Rivera shows up--in a holding cell--for literally five seconds
in her most hardboiled look & manner.

Opening on Roxie's eyes (to plant the conceit from the
start) the pic uses the jazzy Bway overture over shots establishing Velma's late
arrival to her club gig, having just killed her husband & sister--with whom
she shared an act--tho her subsequent "All That Jazz" perf betrays no
sign of being a joint venture. She sings her guts out knowing the

cops are
afoot for her encore. Roxie is tied into this opening as well, having been
brought here by Fred Casely, falsely promising her an audition--and
establishing Roxie's dreams of vaudeville stardom. But where Fosse & Ebb's
skeletal libretto had Roxie simply shoot Fred as part of the show's opening,
Condon fills in the details: giving us the scene of betrayal that drives Roxie
to murder--the following shock allowing "Funny Honey" to emerge as a
torch song in her imagination--while the cops interrogate hapless husband,
Amos. The illusion crumbles and she's off to jail where she imagines Matron
Morton in the mold of Sophie Tucker before she even meets her. By now it's
obvious the film is built on carefully crafted transitions between truth &
illusion, placing greater emphasis on editing than usual. The aforementioned
"Cell Block Tango" comes in pieces over clips of inmates sharing their
murder stories; the number itself more Fosse than vaudeville, highlighted by
the peerless theatrical lighting of Bway legends Jules Fisher & Peggy
Eisenhauer--and filmed with a ferocity--and manipulation of film speed--that
makes it fairly crackle on screen. This and the ventrioloquist-act, "We Both
Reached For the Gun," are the numbers most heightened on screen--again in
no small measure because of lighting.Whether intentional or not, there's no
mistaking

the On-top-of-the-World "Roxie" number as another nod to
Monroe and those forever giving "Diamonds." It even has a bevy of
mature backup boys--and when was the last time we saw that? It's a wholly
fabulous number, and for once done not as a vaudeville specialty but as a
soundstage-size Hlwd studio product. (A bit of a cheat for the '20s) Apparently
"Class" was a cheat too far, for tho it was filmed--in two ways--it
never felt right in the final cut --but you can judge for yourself, with its
inevitable emergence as a bonus track. It's hard to think of quality musical
scores that have their best songs at the end, but my favorite Chicago songs have always been the
latter ones. "Razzle Dazzle" does what it stands for, and the circus
motif is carried to Cirque de Soleil lengths--oddly drenched in a purple haze. Musically
this would be my prime choice as well, were it not for "Nowadays" an
irresistible confection of a song (that in Gwen & Chita's vocals delivered
Bway greatness) which I had long imagined deserved the full Ziegfeldian
stairway. But the film gets it right in a different way, starting with a sultry
glam-croon with Roxie in shimmering black gown; then cut in mid-verse to a more
tawdry audition--one that Roxie fails. Here Condon gives us one last scene, to
tell us how Roxie teams up with Velma (adversaries on equal footing now); something never bothered with in the stage show. Then"Nowadays" resumes in more legit form; the done-up duo engulfed in oversize furs, soon
discarded revealing diamond-beaded dresses, with a light wall dropping from
above. Against this charge of vibrating electricity they dance the "Hot
Honey Rag" rendering all comparisons or memories of Verdon & Rivera
meaningless, by the sheer cinematic Rahadlakum released. (And here, again not
to nit-pick, but Zeta-Jones--who must be the only actress Renee could ever be
alphabetically billed above--and is the more experienced stage performer; pales
next to the loose swagger of Zellweger. Renee looks like she's having fun.
Catherine looks like she's working.)

Twenty-seven years in the making, Chicago--the movie--opened Dec. 10th in NY & LA--my 50th
birthday, as it were. But I was in SF and wouldn't see it until Dec 29th--two
days after its national release. The film caught fire with the critics and
public, and rode its year-end surprise to numerous citations, culminating in a
hefty 13 Oscar nominations, including the Big One; Rob Marshall for directing
and Bill Condon's script. Renee was put in the main actress category, and
Catherine split into the supporting field, which also included Queen Latifah
(as well as Meryl Streep, Julianne Moore and Kathy Bates). Richard Gere wasn't
granted a nod, but John C. Reilly was. A half dozen technical categories
yielded Oscars for Art Direction, Costumes, Film Editing and Sound. In a naked
bid for gold, Kander & Ebb provided "I Move On" (supposedly a
reject from the show) to play in the end credits. The Academy gave the Oscar
instead to Eminem. There hadn't been a Bway musical movie in the Academy's top
list since Cabaret--and no winning
picture since Oliver! in 1968. It
didn't seem like it would ever happen again. 2002 was a better than average
year with some high profile competition including two epics: Martin Scorcese's Gangs of New York and Roman Polanski's masterpiece
of the Warsaw ghetto, The Pianist. Others
in the running were the second installment of the not-yet-Oscared Lord of the Rings trilogy (and by
consensus the least worthy of the three); and a starry, literary prestige item
from Michael Cunningham's book The Hours.
Also rans that year included Adaptation,
Frida, Catch Me If You Can, About Schmidt, Far From Heaven, and Almodovar's
Talk to Her--which won original
screenplay. The year before, Baz Luhrmann's psychadelic Moulin Rouge was the first musical to get a Best Pic nomination
since All That Jazz. Both films played
fast & loose with interpolated music, exaggerated style and fancy editing.
But Moulin Rouge--tho hailed as the second
coming of the musical--was more flash than substance, visually overpowering--but
so shredded into snippets of film the eye
can never take in the uber-Rococo spectacle with any satisfaction. Fortunately,
Chicago didn't pick up the habit, and
tho it's certainly cut with more briskness than the old MGM model, it is
artfully & carefully edited--earning Martin Walsh a well-deserved Oscar. Like
Cabaret 30 years prior, Chicago took an early defined lead in
collecting statues, but lost script & direction to The Pianist--a victory against odds for Roman Polanski. The ultimate
prize was in question until the final opening of the envelope. Understandably, Hlwd
was more in the mood for a musical than another reminder of the world's
horrors. And here was, at last, a musical that appealed to the masses without
apologizing for its Bway mantle. A musical worthy of Oscar. The movie grossed
$170 million domestically, for a $306 global total (21st century numbers are
impossible to correlate with those of decades past--when Hlwd listed
"rentals" deducting all payoffs for a more realistic studio profit
figure. $300 million comes to a lot less when you pay out the theater chains,
the advertising and other sundry costs.) Still there's no disputing Chicago was a smash hit--the highest
grossing movie musical ever--for the moment. The gates once again open, Hlwd
took a look at Bway with fresh eyes.

Bway itself was reawakening; moving from a Bronze Age (after
the usual 28-30 year span--yes, the Saturn return cycle) into a brighter, more Silver
Age, if you will, where the Bway musical rose above the narrow margins of
popularity it fell to post-Golden Age; to a somewhat unapologetic acceptance,
even some degree of cool. In large measure this was due to bringing back the
comedy in Musical Comedy--something that became scarce in the wake of Sondheim
and the Brits--undoubtedly a factor in the shrinking audience. But Bway was
bouncing back at the Turn of the Century--something, I confess I never expected
to see in my lifetime. Times Square had been transformed from its trashy &
dangerous nadir in the '70s. The once low-rise theater district had been
engulfed in canyons of skyscrapers; the TKTS booth in Duffy Square evolved into
a stadium for gawkers; the neon homeland giving way to massive hi-def TV screens;
traffic-clogged streets reduced to massive pedestrian malls; one big showgoer's
Disneyland. Only unlike previous eras, musicals were now 90% of all shows on
Bway. Whether driven by politics or history the Zeitgeist demanded it. As the
Golden Age once bloomed in the anxious soil of horrific war, the new Silver Age
took root in the Bush/Cheney coup de etat,
and its resulting catastrophes, beginning with 9/11, which defines the true beginning
of the 21st Century. The shockwaves Americans endured for years to come,
required the musical to return as a public balm.

I hadn't any six degrees connection to 9/11 (tho my
longtime friend Tim Witter passed under the Twin Towers in a cab mere minutes
before the first plane hit--on way to Newark Airport), but weren't we all
walking around like Zombies for some time afterwards? Bad enuf we had to endure
the incompetence of Bush and the malevolence of Cheney, as we started down that
long hell-hole, now a series of personal unfortunate events came my way which
made these years the worst of my life. Three months after 9/11, my partner Greg
(who was managing an office at a wellness clinic) was broadsided by a woman
running a red light; car totaled, waking up in the ER. Remarkably he seemed to
be fine, but over time certain complications emerged, leading to a seizure, and
then in hospital the main event: a fall by their negligence that rendered him
paralyzed for the next half year. After getting nowhere with Kaiser, Greg returned
home to a newly setup hospital room, and thru our genius medical intuitive,
Rhonda, slowly regained intelligence in his lower body and began to stand and barely
walk. But that's another story...and a long one it is. The impact on me, was no
picnic either. At first there was a rotating staff of nurses in the daytime
(allowing me to go to work) and Greg's friends--tho they soon virtually all
disappeared. My evenings had me playing cook, nurse, companion and morale booster;
until he's tucked in to slumberland. It was like suddenly having a child--an
infant at that, if you factor in the of changing diapers. My one sweet spot was
the one or two late hours I had to myself, a puff of magic herb, and an escape
into a musical album, or a movie--nothing was more soothing than a '40s Fox
musical with Betty Grable, Alice Faye or Carmen Miranda, with glistening
Technicolor backlot settings: Rio, Miami, Cuba, Canadian Rockies--fairly new to
me (no compilation like MGM's That's
Entertainment ever clued later generations to these forgotten goodies.) As
much needed bon bons of escapism, I can well understand the popularity of such
pulp during the Great War.

For obvious reasons I can date the end of my social
life--modest as it was--to early 2002. But what became evident as Greg healed--ever
so slowly--was that I so treasured the few hours I had stolen to pursue my own
explorations & creative works, that no matter how much I regained, 'twas
never enuf. The first project to suffer was my musical, When Stars Collide for which I had embarked on revising as well as writing
new lyrics to be set to music by Billy Philadelphia (who was likewise consumed
by life and in no hurry). We managed to get six songs done the whole year--a
couple of which were soon discarded. I hadn't time for my art/collage work
either. I was blessed in one regard, however: my job was stable, unassuming and
flexible to any and all of my needs. Yet approaching my 50th birthday I hadn't
the morale or the wherewithal to plan for any grand gesture (as I had on my
40th, writing and performing my own monologue, The Nikita Khruschev Songbook). As it happened, my Father would've
ruined any planned event, as he took deathly ill on the day itself, and was
rushed to hospital, forcing me to deal with my distraught and near hysterical
mother--in depressing San Jose. I suppose I could count as a birthday gift my
father's apology--from his hospital bed--for being a lousy father. I took this to be indication of how close the
end must be, rather than any heartfelt rapprochement. Mother on the other hand
was refusing to even considerate his demise, going so far as to contradict
Father's Do Not Resuscitate dictum, telling the staff to keep him alive at all
cost. For this he suffered another
invasive operation (colon cancer this time) returning home within a week. But
by Xmas he was back in hospital with a new round of issues. He spent the
holidays in an overcrowded nursing home, and I was making the hour's journey
from SF with dreaded regularity, the start of my hatred of driving--not to
mention the physical anxiety attacks. The only upside was that Greg was now
autonomous enuf to afford my frequent absences. I soldiered on, but two nights
before New Years, I managed to get myself to the Metreon to see Chicago.

Despite outstanding advance
word, it was a high bar indeed to measure up to Verdon, Rivera & Orbach and
the fingerprints of Fosse, which made it all the more sweet that the film was
so happily realized. I returned to corroborate my first impression the
following Sunday. By this time Father was released home once more, and against
all odds seemed to dodge the Grim Reaper for the umpteenth time, looking and
feeling somewhat healthy once again--much to Mother's desperate relief. My own
relief was measured for I knew it only put off the inevitable again. The truth
was neither of them had any interest in being alive anymore--Father's age and
maladies put his global wanderings finally to rest; and Mother was nothing if
not incessantly frail, nervous, and miserable. Mired in their natural Russian
pessimism, they nonetheless clung to life with genetic fortitude--annoying each
other as only the most intimates can, locked in mutual co-dependence &
resentment. For years Father had stated when the End Was Near he would graciously
shoot her first & then himself. But in the end he was both selfish and a
coward. He only shot himself. After a fortnight his renewed vigor was curdling
again, and seeing the writing on the wall; facing a return to hospital, or
worse, a nursing home--he shot himself in the head upstairs in his office,
while Mother was downstairs washing dishes. But sparing her life was ultimately
crueler and a good deal more painful for all concerned--especially Mother. The
Old Man exhibited signs of dementia as well in the last few weeks; one key
example being his sudden conviction that his mother, my Baba, was secretly
Jewish--his evidence being, "Look at her!" This was primarily preposterous
for Baba was staunchly proud of her heritage, and if she was Jewish she would
have worn it like armour. This was also curious as Father had always been
something of a covert anti-semite, only to "out" himself on his
deathbed as a Jew? God only knows what karmic guilt trips he was untangling in
his dying brain. In the end he was true to his Russian self. Putting gun to
temple, much as his father had
(having colluded with the Germans, on the losing end of the war)--a tradition I'm
certain not to continue. (Suicide, who knows? Guns, never). Facing only pain
and the prospect of failing organs, I
can't say I blame him for his exit strategy. I only wish he took Mother with
him. Believe me, she did too.

The House of My Parents was never one to inspire music. In
fact once I'd left home, I don't think I ever heard music played there again
unless it was, incidentally, on TV. The premise of Chicago is that the whole world is Show Biz. Even the most dire
circumstances can be turned into show-stopping numbers. No doubt a good many
people love musicals as an escape from their hardships or dark corners. But I
fell into them for giving me a narrative where there wasn't one. There was
nothing in my home or family that remotely suggested Show Biz; nothing that
suggests a song--even metaphorically. There's no "Mr. Cellophane" for
my Father, no "Losing My Mind" for Mother. Just "A Lot of Livin'
to Do" for me, alone, in the fantasy world I curated. I was 22, living my
childhood dream in NY at the opening of Chicago;
on the verge of starting my career in theater, getting the thrill of seeing
Gwen Verdon & Chita Rivera in the flesh, in a smash. When the movie came
out I was 50, thru the wash in both Bway & Hlwd, and facing depressing
times--only exasperated by global insanity and an unwinnable war the world was
rushing into. It didn't seem so at the time, but in many ways 1975 looks
bucolic in retrospect. Upon reflection, Fred Ebb's lyrics to
"Nowadays" have a richer meaning when one has an actual half-century of
living experience to see the long road traveled:

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About this Blog

At the intersection of Broadway and Hollywood,

the Musical has been my lifelong touchstone. How did this happen? What does it mean? Herewith an analysis of my own"glass menagerie;" a Proustian trail of memory and perhaps a final summation of my thoughts and feelings on this unrelenting vocation.

About Me

A man on the verge of a musical breakdown. Why did I do it? What did it get me? Scrapbooks full of me in the background: New York, Hollywood, San Francisco. Palm Springs. This time, boys, I'm takin' the bows.